Rivulets
by a mountain of gideon's scones
Summary: "She's falling in love with him, and even if she wanted to, she can't stop." -Sam/Amelie, AU on the Titanic. Twoshot that follows them from the beginning until the very end.
1. The Beginning

Ok, so this is a **twoshot** Sam/Amelie AU fic, where they're both human, and it's set on RMS Titanic, circa 1912. This section is the first half of it.

This twoshot is not owned by me, and it's not exactly the film Titanic, either...it's more original. I think they may go OOC slightly, due to their being human and the such, but I've strived to keep the Sam/Amelie we saw in the books as realistic as possible...just nowhere near perfect.

And it's dedicated to my friends on **RoseScorpius Fans.**

* * *

The size of the Titanic startles Amelie.

Never before in her life has she seen a ship of such grandeur; the immensity of it, with its level after level of windows, its dozens of funnels emitting billows of pure white smoke, is more than she can comprehend, because the biggest boat she's been on before was the one to cross the Channel from France. She knew that this would be the chance for her to change her life, that gaining a ticket to board the RMS Titanic to America would be the silver lining to disguise the painful life she's led for twenty years.

Technically, she comes from royalty; her blood is that of the last king of France's bloodline, however diluted that is, and her father still likes to pretend that he's going to overthrow the democracy that rules their country, in order to take his place as its 'rightful ruler', no matter how ludicrous it is. She's lived a life of luxury for her entire life, and it's only been these past months, since she ran away from her father and his ironclad fist, that she's understood what it's like to truly _live_.

She's barely made ends meet, and only her good looks prevented her from being turned out of one of the women's refuges because they were so overcrowded—it turns out that even refuge owners are partial to a pretty face and a smile—before those same good looks afforded her the luck to win a ticket to America. She won it on the eight of April nineteen hundred and twelve, and it's been a race to get from London to Southampton in time for the boat's setting sail, but she's here.

"Sorry, miss," someone calls as they bump into her, almost causing her to drop the bag which contains all of her worldly possessions—a locket of her mother's that she's been unable to sell, even in her hardest hours, letters to remind her about how her life _used_ to be, and the one silk evening gown that's survived the tumultuous times since her departure from Calais.

She flashes the man a smile, tossing her golden locks over her shoulder as she does so, before turning off and onto the gangway that leads to second class; it was the only ticket class the gamblers had on offer—teaching poker had been the one thing her father had taught her well—and Amelie considers it to be better than third, if not quite as good as first.

(Amelie's sure that she can flash a smile and get herself into first, anyway; she's overly reliant on her looks now that she's become independent, but that'll end when she gets to America.)

When she gets there, Amelie's plan is simple: find a party, slip in and return to her socialite roots, ensuring that she leaves with the richest man in the room—then, she marries him and they live happily ever after, in a world where her father doesn't exist. The only bone for contention is finding a party, but she knows she has the journey's length to discover the finer points of her plan. Never does she doubt that she'll find happiness; America's where you go to achieve your dreams, so why should it be any different for her?

But for now, she's going to board the ship and dress for dinner, hopefully finding her way to the first class restaurant and not being turned away along the way.

_~x~_

"Darling, are you going to dress for dinner?" Sam's mother calls across their living area, her voice projecting out onto the balcony where he stands, smoking a cigar, his hand running through his ginger-coloured hair.

"I _am_ dressed for dinner, mother," he replies, his tone exasperated. All he wants to do is to admire the view, to memorise the sunset on his departure from England back to America, where the headquarters of his late father's company are; he's the new boss of one of the largest markets on Wall Street, but the trade off is to leave England, his homeland—forever.

His mother doesn't press the point any further—he's a grown man, after all, with three-and-twenty years to his name, and if he can't dress himself by now, he has no hope—so Sam makes the decision to head down to the dining hall early; he's never liked to be late to anything, and if that means being too early, so be it.

On his way down the corridors, he catches the odd snippet of conversation from the other first class compartments whenever the maidservants open the door to scurry across to their employer's other rooms, and he can't help but smile to himself about the absurdity of how much _stuff_ people need.

There's a French man that he vaguely recognises as Monsieur Bishop, leading advocate for France's monarchy to be restored, along with one of the most famous landowners in Europe's history, and Sam nods to him as he passes, accidentally hearing part of the elder man's conversation with his manservant—

"Amelie's meant to be on this ship; my informant was quite clear when he specified she had gained a ticket for the maiden voyage of the Titanic," he says, Sam catching the man's relatively thick French accent. "You need to find her, and you need to bring her back to me. She needs to learn what happens when she crosses her papa and loses him three million francs," he continues, and Sam's suddenly glad that he's not related to this man.

He approaches the dining hall and sees that it's lit with diamond chandeliers, their jewels refracting rainbows in all directions, and the floor and walls are made from polished marble; it's certainly impressive, everything polished up to perfection, even down to the server's brass buttons on his coat.

"Do you have your card for entry, sir?" the man on the door asks Sam, who realises that he's left it in his room.

Hastily, he rushes back to his bedroom, narrowly avoiding his mother, and passes the Bishop man again—this time, without his manservant. They exchange nods once again, neither of them wanting to chat, and Sam's just about to speak to the man on the door when—

—a young woman steps out of the doorway just to his right, her silver dress catching his eye as it glimmers in the candlelight, and Sam's breath is taken from him as he looks into her face. The first thing he thinks of is an angel, and that this is how an angel would look in human form, with her perfectly angled face, her blonde hair pulled into a bun with strands framing her face, and the dress designed to make her look as though she is floating.

"Hello," Sam says with a smile, automatically bending at the waist to bow to the most beautiful woman he thinks he's ever met.

"Good evening, sir," she replies, and his smile widens when he realises her accent is French; it makes her seem even more appealing somehow, even though he knows he shouldn't base his opinion solely on her physical appearance. "How are you this evening?" she continues, lifting her skirts as she makes a small curtsey to him.

They make small talk for a few minutes, both of them discussing their reason for taking the trip to America—though her answer is much more vague than his, he notices—and it's only when the bell rings for dinner that Sam realises he doesn't know the name of his new acquaintance.

"I am Amelie," she tells him, her voice almost laughing as she speaks, "and you are?"

For a moment, Sam's shocked; this woman doesn't know who he is, doesn't know that he's one of the richest bachelors on the planet and so isn't after him for his money. He could put that down to her being French—but no; he knows who Mr Bishop is, after all.

"I'm Samuel, Samuel Glass, but everyone calls me Sam," he replies, his eyes crinkling as he grins. "And would you like to accompany me to dinner, Miss…?"

She doesn't fill in her surname, merely takes his arm, and Sam can't help but feel slightly disappointed that she doesn't tell him her name, before the realisation that she's willing to come with him to the premier dining room hits him; she wants to carry on their conversation.

They may have a chance.

_~x~_

She's entranced, and she didn't mean to be; she had expected to merely sneak into the dining room and make herself comfortable—it was never in her thoughts that she would meet a man on the boat, especially so quickly.

Amelie can already tell that he's the sort of man she wants to find in America: he's funny, charming and already, she knows he has a good heart; she's not quite she how she knows this, given they met merely five minutes ago, but the first impression he's given her is that he's the right sort of man.

His name is familiar to her, and it takes her until Sam's pulling the chair out for her to sit at the dinner table to remember where she's heard it before; it was in one of the newspapers she read on her way to Southampton, saying that he's taking the place of his father as the chief executive of one of New York's largest stock markets.

(He's everything she wanted to find and more, because she can tell he's got more than just money and good looks, but something deeper.)

"You know my name already," she tells him when he asks about her and what she's like, deigning not to pass on her surname because it reminds her of her father. He's the reason she left her homeland, of course, hence why she's been merely _Amelie_ since she crossed the Channel. "I am French, _d'accord_, and I am moving to New York in order to pursue a new life," she continues, stopping herself from mentioning her father, because that's a story she doesn't want to discuss. Her problems were left in France, she hopes, and she doesn't ever want to relive them—yet, at least. She knows that whenever she marries, she shall have to share her story and explain why her family cannot attend, but for now, she can keep it under wraps; she can be an Amelie cast in mystery, and be whoever she wants to be.

To her surprise, Sam doesn't push her further to try and discover more about her life, something she thought he would; she revealed as little information as possible, and she knows it's probably slightly suspicious. Yet he doesn't seem to notice.

"Well, I'm Sam, obviously, and I'm twenty three years old now, and I'm moving to the US with my mother, in order to run my late father's business," Sam tells Amelie without her needing to request the information of him. "I'm not betrothed, I've never been to France and, really, I have no idea why I'm telling you any of this," he laughs at himself when he finishes speaking, yet Amelie doesn't. In all honesty, she's enamoured by this man already, and she could imagine herself talking to him forever.

To stop herself saying something she could later regret—for a _lady_ would never be so forward with her feelings, at least in public—Amelie takes a sip of her wine, and turns her head to look around the dining room with all its grandeur. It has been lavishly decorated, with mahogany dining tables and crystal glass forming the base for most of the crockery, and it's so overwhelmingly familiar to Amelie; her home's dining room is similar, all dark wood and expensive finery, and the realisation causes an overwhelming rush of emotion to rush through her.

"Are you quite alright?" Sam asks her, alarmed when she turns around; Amelie presumes that her face is drawn, so bone white that not even her make-up can disguise it.

It's with a well-practised smile and slight shrug of her shoulders does Amelie nod and reply, "yes, certainly. I merely…I mistook the setting for somewhere I once frequented three times per day." She tries to make her response as honest as possible, and before Sam can question her, someone enters the dining room who makes their way directly to Amelie's companion.

"Hello, Samuel, I see you are making acquaintances already," the woman says, taking a seat next to Sam, and something about her features suggests to Amelie that this is Sam's mother. This belief is confirmed when the woman turns to Amelie and says, "good evening, dear. I am Samuel's mother. May I beg your name?"

Amelie smiles slightly and nods, the movement causing the crystals in the chandelier to refract a rainbow across her face; it irritates her vision for a moment before she has the vision to sit back in her chair slightly, in order to reply to the new guest.

"My name is Amelie, and I have had the pleasure of meeting your son, that is correct," she says in response.

She knows that she's stunned Sam's mother; if the situation had been different, if Amelie had been sitting as the intruder on the situation, she would expect to be given much more information than she had given out, and as the silence between the three of them increases in length, Amelie knows that the older woman has no idea how to respond.

"Well…Miss…_Amelie_, is that a French accent I can hear?" the woman – Mrs Glass, Amelie presumes – says, this evidently being the only thing she can find to comment on.

"_Oui_, I am French." Amelie's response is short and to the point, curt almost, and it's easily inferred that she doesn't want to talk to the mother; the look she shares with Sam is one of an almost desperation for the two of them to be alone—even in a room bustling with others—and it's what causes Sam to intervene before his mother speaks again.

"Mother, I believe that Sir Geoffrey expressed a hope that you would sit alongside him so that you could discus the possibility of you organising his Christmas ball," Sam comments. "I will remain later to escort you back to your cabin, if you do not want to move alone."

His mother's eyes narrow at these words, and Amelie can tell that she presumes that they're going to leave the dining room, which is something Amelie most certainly doesn't want to do. She's missed this level of luxury, and with the food about to be served, she doesn't think that she _could_ even leave; hunger has been her friend these past months, her diet nothing compared to her previous intake, and the delicious aroma of thick soup is divine.

"Certainly, Samuel, I will see you then." Thankfully, his mother spies Sir Geoffrey in the corner and stands up. "Good evening…_Amelie_. I shall see you again, I'm sure." As the woman walks away, Amelie's certain that she doesn't like her, not only because of her lack of desire to chat, but because of the most important rule of the upper social circles: well-to-do, respectable ladies _always_ have a companion…and she doesn't. She's alone on this ship.

"Thank you," she finds herself whispering in Sam's ear when they shift in their seats to face the table once more. "I have nothing against your mother, having only just met her—"

"—but it's too early to meet the parents, I do agree," Sam finishes for her, surprising Amelie; she never thought that any two people could be in-sync so quickly, that their thoughts could already be along the same wavelength with so little time elapsing between their first meeting and now. "Speaking of parents, I beg your pardon if this question is too forward, but where _are_ your own?" it's the question Amelie hasn't wanted to hear, because now she has to give a hapdash explanation as to how it's came about, her travelling to England and then to America without a companion.

To try and give herself enough time to think, Amelie places the forkful of salad in her mouth and slowly chews, her mind moving swiftly through all the scenarios she could possibly relay to him, the various ones she's been sharing with the people she's met along her journey, before she realises something: she doesn't want to lie to him. She wants to tell him the truth, even in this room filled with strangers far richer than her current pauper self.

"My mother died when I was a child—she drowned in the lake near our home, though nobody can understand why she was out there in the middle of the night in December," she sighs, her finger tracing the rim of the wine glass before her. Amelie keeps her eyes averted from Sam's face; she doesn't want to see the sympathetic eyes she's gotten since her mother's death whenever she mentions how it happened, not from someone like this, someone she could imagine herself with forever. "My father…he's not a man you want to be around—_un homme de contrôle_, a controlling man; there are many, many nicknames for him in my hometown, most of them unpleasant—and life in the same home as him was unbearable. I tried to leave many times, but he always found me…and he wanted to marry me off to someone else who believes that the monarchy ought to be restored. I couldn't allow that to happen to myself, so I ran away." She smiles slightly, turning to look at Sam, her expression half amused, half broken. "He's given up now, I hope…and that is the entire story, _mon ami_, please do not judge me too harshly."

Regardless of the fact that they're sitting in a dining room crowded with some of Europe's most elite, Sam's fingers move to take Amelie's hand, and she realises that it's the first intimate contact she has had since her mother's death—wanted contact, at least. He's not judging her, not telling a steward to throw her out of the dining room for she isn't first class…he's just there.

And it makes Amelie feel wanted.

Before either of them can speak, Amelie's eye catches the light once more, and she briefly looks away from Sam. It's only then does she see someone in the corner of the room, someone she thought she would never see again.

Her face turns bone white once again and the hand holding the wine glass shakes so greatly that she has to set it down; she cannot stay in this room, not with her father here.

"Where are you going?" Sam whispers to her as she pulls her hand from his grasp and makes to stand up, setting her napkin on the table.

"That man in the corner, no, the other corner, he's my father," she murmurs as she moves slowly, trying to surreptitiously move in order to not attract Bishop's gaze in her direction. The dress was a stupid idea, she realises now, because its jewels glisten in the light—and there's plenty of light in this room. "I cannot stay here, Sam, I can't. I feel—" she can't describe how she feels, and she doesn't have the time (he could notice her _right_ now!) so she moves.

The door's held open for her as she leaves, and as soon as she's out of view of the windows, she breaks into the fastest run she can manage; she needs to put as much space between herself and her father _now_, otherwise she doesn't know what she'll do.

Amelie's thoughts are all over the place as she runs through the twisting corridors, following the signs to the viewing deck; it's a beautifully starlit night, she recalls randomly from the windows in the dining room, and it's the only setting she can think of that could potentially calm her down.

She races past people who look startled to see her moving with such speed and such determination, almost crashes into half a dozen walls, and is thoroughly out of breath by the time she reaches the sea-deck. She has to brace herself on the railings to attempt to stop the shaking feeling, when—

"It's ok, Amelie." _Sam's_ there, his hands on her shoulders to stop her jumping and falling forwards from the shock of him being there; then again, she thinks rashly, she half _expected_ him to come. She wanted him to turn up and comfort her, to breathe deeply into her hair as he is now, attempting to regain his breath, because she doesn't want to be alone.

(Being alone scares her; it makes her realise that she's riddled with faults that she can't heal—it's why she wants to find someone to be with, also. So that she doesn't have to be alone.)

"It's _not_, Sam!" she cries, turning around to face him; their bodies are mere centimetres apart now, and she should be pushing away from this man she's just met, but she's not. "He's here, and he's in first class; he's _rich_! He's found out I'm running away to America, and…I…it's impossible to be anything other than disastrous!" she breaks out into mutterings in rapid French, unable to control her fear and releasing it in her mother tongue; she's cursing her father, wanting to scream out what he's done so that they understand why she can't go home, and she wants to do anything in order to avoid him.

She knows Sam doesn't understand what she's saying—he can't speak French, she's certain—but she understands what he's saying when he pulls her into his arms.

"I can't do anything about him being here; we're in the middle of the ocean," he whispers into her ear, and the tickle of his hot breath on her cool skin causes Amelie to shiver. "But I can protect you. I can keep you away from him and if he comes to find you, we can avoid him. I don't know what he's done, but you're scared and that's all I need to know." he sounds so confident, Amelie begins to believe that things will be ok, that she can disembark with Sam—he's already worming his way into her future plans, and that's scaring her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asks as she pulls away slightly, feeling one of his hands take hers. She's feeling things she doesn't know how to explain, for a man she's only just really met, and it's scaring her. "You don't know me, Sam, so why do you want to protect me?"

His sapphire blue eyes meet her grey ones, and it's in that moment that she thinks she understands; she thinks, because he's so unreadable, and yet so utterly open at the same time. "Because I _want_ to know you," he tells her forcefully, pulling her from the edge of the boat. "I want to get to know you, Amelie, and nothing will stop me…unless you don't want me to." He stops suddenly, and she realises that he's scared she doesn't want to know him.

She surprises herself by lifting her other hand to his face and tracing the outline of his cheeks; he has dimples when he smiles, she's noticed, and there's an innocence about him that she thinks is adorable. "Where can we go?" is all she says before he's pulling her along with him, moving to another door than the one they emerged on deck through.

"My suite has a spare bedroom," he tells her. "I also have a library of the books I couldn't bear to leave in England; we can go there, if you want. It's safe; nobody besides myself has access, not even my mother."

Amelie lets herself smile for the first time since she saw her father again, and replies, "that sounds beautiful."

_~x~_

She's more than he ever thought he would find in a woman.

They talk for hours that first night, about what their favourite things are—something that displays their culture rift—, their favourite books and the things that they're going to miss about Europe when they land in America. And with each word she says, Sam finds himself more and more entranced by the French beauty, someone with as much brains as beauty, a woman who can challenge him in a debate—something that he has only ever found in his mother before. She's charming and vivacious, and already, Sam can imagine watching her walk down the aisle, placing a ring on her finger and telling her _"until death us do part_," because she's that kind of girl.

(He doesn't dare even show that he feels like this yet, though, because that would just jeopardise everything, and probably put her in danger.)

It's only when the clock strikes one in the morning and they're finally finished arguing over the worth of Great Expectations, do they decide that it's time to call it a night.

"The spare room is this way," Sam points out as he leads the way from the library across his temporary home. "If you dislike the wave movement, you should be fine in here; this is apparently the part of the ship that's most stable even within the most vicious of storms." As they stand outside the open door, he hesitates, not sure what to say, or what to do—or even if to do anything.

She doesn't have anything other than the dress she's wearing, he realises, and he'll have to go and take the other things she's brought from her room—or he can find her new items. All he wants to do is to protect her, to look after her in this world that's so different to anything she's evidently been used to, and yet he doesn't want to sound patronising or as though he's trying to control her.

Whilst he thinks this through, Amelie moves; one minute she's standing before him, the next she's pressing her lips to his, and Sam truly can't recall a kiss that's made him feel like this before. It's as though he's flying off the edge of the world, about to emerge in territories as yet unseen, because _nothing_ has ever felt like this before. She's something special, something he's already aware he can't live without, and if this transpires to merely be a voyage-romance, then he's aware his heart will be broken by the time they dock in New York.

"Goodnight, Sam," she whispers against his lips before walking into the bedroom and closing the door, her fingers waving bye right until the wooden door meets its frame.

It takes him three stiff whiskeys and an hour to get to sleep in his own room, the flickering of the candle his focus as he attempts to sleep. But as he looks at it, all he sees is Amelie's face.

(He's fallen for her in so few hours…and he hopes that she's in the same predicament.)

**.**

She's there the next morning, and it's all Sam can do not to jump for joy and tell her that he thinks he's falling in love with her, for fear of scaring her.

Before she awakens, he's already been down to the dining hall and secured himself a double breakfast, which he takes back to his room, along with a trip to the clothing shop on board the Titanic in order to choose two dresses he thinks will fit Amelie.

"You don't need to erupt that you don't want my charity, or anything along those lines; you're receiving it, no matter what, if only for the kiss you gave me last night," he tells Amelie as he presses the box into her hand at her door. His grin is nervous; he half expects her to throw the dresses back in his face and to tell him not to bother her again.

But she doesn't.

"Thank you," is all she says, a smile on her lips and a redness in her cheeks that Sam realises isn't normally there. "I shall be right out…thank you, Sam."

"Not a problem," is his response, and it's true; it's not a problem.

He already knows he's give this girl the world if he could manage it.

_~x~_

"Do you want to go on the deck?" Sam asks Amelie, and she finds herself nodding enthusiastically. After almost three days in Sam's cabin, some of which was spent alone for he had business deals to arrange, she's dying for some fresh air—and her need is so great that she's willing to run the risk of happening across her father.

He's apparently been asking questions in the restaurant at mealtime, looking for the girl with the blonde hair and beauty so exquisite that she ought to be easily recognised; yet Sam informs her that her father forgot to bring a photograph of her more recent than on her tenth birthday, so nobody thus far has linked together the mystery woman with Sam Glass and Amelie Bishop.

(It won't be long before someone does, Amelie knows, so she's got to come up with a contingency plan, yet how to tell Sam this, she doesn't know.)

She's falling in love with him, and even if she wanted to, she can't stop. It's the sort of love she's read about in books since she was a small child, the gripping kind, the one that everyone endeavours to find. It's not just because he's helped her; he's charming and passionate about most things she is, too, and their arguments when their opinions differ are some of the most illuminating she's ever experienced. He's handsome, both on the inside and the outside, and he sparks something inside of her that was previously dormant. She can already imagine being married to him, and that scares her slightly, because if her life can change so dramatically on a ship, who knows what it could be like in New York, with its hustle and bustle and situations she's never been in before?

"Come this way," he says, taking her hand automatically as they walk swiftly out of the suite. Dusk is approaching rapidly, turning the sky a strange colour and distinguishing the horizon from the sea, and the low height of the sun causes Amelie to shield her eyes when they get out on deck. "Don't you think it's beautiful?" Sam murmurs to Amelie, his hand on her waist as they lean over the edge; it's exhilarating and dangerous—if they slip, they're lost to the depths of the icy ocean forever—and the emotions it stirs up has Amelie struggling to keep her composure.

"_Je t'aime_," she whispers in her mother tongue, her mouth by his ear as she leans back into him; the feeling of his body against hers startles her slightly, but it's a pleasant sort of shock: she didn't think that it would feel like _this_ to be in love.

(Of course, she may not be in love and this could be a phantom romance that's spanned from the tenth of April until the thirteenth thus far, and she could actually be going insane.)

Amelie knows he doesn't know what she's said, but she hopes that he can infer its meaning from the way she's holding onto him—and he does. "I love you, Amelie, and I don't know if that's what you said, or even if it's too soon to be saying this, but I do. Already, my life is bound by you, its goals changed because of _you_." He's whispering into her ear now, until she turns around, her back to the railings so that she can press her lips to his.

Thankfully, they're on the upper deck, the one rarely visited by anyone of any importance, so their reputations aren't at stake with such a public display of affection between two unmarried persons.

Amelie doesn't think that she can recall a better moment in her life, even aboard RMS Titanic, and as they break apart, she murmurs soft words in French, unable to process her thoughts into English. "What are you saying?" Sam asks her as he puts his arm around her, their bodies moving slowly along the deck, towards the stern of the boat.

"Nothing, really," she tells him, deciding not to tell him that she's telling herself that she's lucky, that his beauty is refined and incomparable and that she would rather be nothing and be with him than become someone rich and famous. Love is already worth more to her than riches and everything she's previously held valuable, even a love that could be fleeting—but she doubts that very much. It feels eternal, and when something feels eternal, Amelie's certain that it will, indeed, be this way.

"Truly?" he levels her off with a stare that has Amelie bursting out in laughter, shaking her head. "I don't believe you, Amelie."

"Fine," she sighs, rolling her eyes as she talks. "I was muttering that I think you look better in black because it makes your hair stand out more," she lies, her cheeks colouring as she lies; she's never been a good liar, and that's something she's simultaneously considered helpful and irritating, but more irritating at the minute.

Before he can respond, Amelie's gaze focuses on someone standing at the stern of the boat, someone who she's been running from, someone who, with a tip of his hat in her direction, knows where she has.

She's been found.

"Sam!" she cries, her voice broken, "he's over there!" With one hand, she points towards their intended location, the grey-haired man with the evil smile right in the spot they were headed for.

"Come on," he says, pulling her sharply in the direction they've just walked before ducking into one of the smaller, less prominent doors along the wall. "We can't go back to my suite yet, not now he's recognised me with you. I know where there's a utility cupboard where we can hide until it's safe to go back to the library. Is that ok?"

Amelie nods, breathless with fear about the fact he's here! He's here and he's found her, and the sound of footsteps on the deck outside suggests that he's after her—he is, or one of the many henchmen he has, she reminds herself. She's no longer fearless; her safe haven has been destroyed with one glimpse of the wrong man, and she could lose everything, because is her father going to let her go without a fight? No, he isn't, and she knows it'll be a fight to the death—someone will die if she allows them to meet, and that's something she refuses to accept.

And so they run. Sam takes the lead, pulling Amelie alongside him as they burst through doors after doors, seeking refuge and a place to allow her fears to disappear; it doesn't have to be elegant, it merely has to be somewhere she's safe with Sam.

Their random turns must throw off anyone who's following them, particularly when they go through an area which must contain one hundred and fifty people, and it's with their last reserves of energy that they slam the door of the cupboard shut, locking it behind them.

Looking round, Amelie realises that it's not as bad as she had thought; it's small, naturally given what its use is, but there are chairs and it's cosy enough to spend a few hours.

As she does this, Sam lights the oil lamp, increasing the dull light streaming in from the porthole on the wall above their heads, and the glow illuminates planes of his face that normally, Amelie would overlook. He sets the lamp down on one of the piles of cleaning equipment, securing it with various pieces of cloth when the boat's lurching almost upsets it.

"You know I've never been like this before," she comments as Sam pulls her into his arms without a moment's hesitation, burying his face in her hair. "I used to be proper and a _lady_, but you're turning me into something passionate, someone completely different. And I'm not sure if I know who I am, or anything other than you…and that scares me, Sam."

He laughs slightly into her hair, and Amelie can't help but be confused as to why he's doing this. "It's the same for me; I never fell in love before, not properly, and I've known work for so many years…I've never let my emotions guide me—or at least not like this. You're something special, Amelie, and I don't want to let you go; I don't think I _can_, even if I want to.

"Your father is something we can overcome, most definitely, and we can do it together, if you want to stay with me. I know I love you already, something which doesn't seem possible given how short a timeframe we've known one another, but I do. And I don't think I could go back to a world which doesn't have you in it, Amelie." His voice is quiet as he finishes, and Amelie can barely hear him.

She lifts her head up and their lips meet, hands on each other's skin, and they forget their worries about Bishop and the future in these hours of hiding, because it's their solace from the dangers which could overcome them. This little cupboard, with its aroma of bleach and the view of the crashing waves…it's the place that can keep them safe.

For tonight, at least.

_~x~_

Sam doesn't know whether or not they'll be safe in his suite; he can lock the door, and double lock it, and even lock them in his library, but if there are Bishop's cronies around, it could end nastily. Nobody would come to his aid, he thinks bitterly—but they're going now, so they'd better be safe.

It's three o'clock in the morning, and the ship is silent, save for the whirring of the engines; they're so far down that they're merely a floor or two above the coal-powered engines, and it's louder than the first class travellers ever considered it could be.

He holds Amelie close to him as they walk through the silent corridors, all the while looking over his shoulder for anyone suspiciously out of place, yet there's nobody. He can feel Amelie leaning into him, tired beyond belief because of the lateness of the hour, and he sweeps her into his arms with ease, her slight weight causing no issue for him as he moves through the ship—it's actually easier, carrying her rather than having to pull her alongside him.

"Sam?" she whispers, her voice barely more than a mumble. "_Je t'aime_."

She taught him that earlier; it means _I love you_, apparently, and so it's with a smile that he replies, "_Je t'aime, aussi_, Amelie," because that means _I love you, too_, according to the blonde in his arms.

They move up through the levels slowly, winding their way through the sleeping cabins and up increasingly grand staircases, until they reach their suite. And amazingly, there's nobody there to attack; Bishop's men either don't know where he lives, or they don't dare risk attacking him on board the ship.

_They'll wait until I'm next on deck and throw me overboard into the icy waters of the Arctic_, he thinks to himself grimly, hoisting Amelie further into his arms as he walks through his living area and into the library. It's their room now, and as he sets her down on the sofa in there, he notices that she's fallen asleep; she's even more beautiful when she sleeps, he thinks, because there's none of the pain that haunts her features when she's awake, nothing but her pure and complete beauty.

Slipping out of the room for a second, Sam picks up blankets and pillows from the bedrooms, finds the decanter of whiskey and the plates of food and locks the door to the library, aiming to have a complete day locked away from the world in their other secret hiding place.

(It's not so secret, but it's the room where he realised he loves her, so it's the room where they can hide for a day.)

**.**

They sleep through most of the morning, and by the time Amelie wakes up, it's after two in the afternoon.

"Good afternoon, dear," Sam says with a smile, lifting his hand to trace the outline of her face, just like she did to him yesterday.

"Have you been watching me sleep?" she asks curiously, and Sam has to laugh before responding.

"Yes, you're even more perfect when you're asleep," he tells her honestly, his hand moving from her face to her neck, and then down her arm to hold her left hand close to him. "I love you," he murmurs, moving closer to press his lips to her cheek, before she abruptly moves, causing their lips to smash together.

His hands wrap in her hair, and his eyes open briefly for a moment to see the grandfather clock informing him that it's already two forty five pm, on the fourteenth of April; they're only almost a third of the way through their voyage to New York, and he's already found the girl of his dreams…

Sam's stunned when her hands move to the front of his shirt and begin to undo them slowly, one by one, until the front of his shirt is hanging open, revealing his chest underneath. "Amelie, I…" he begins, until she presses one finger to his lips to silence him. As she does, he notices that for the first time, her hair is down, framing her face, and it makes her look even more youthful, more innocent, and even more desirable.

(He should stop thinking like this; it's not right, not so soon, not with _her_.)

"I want to," she tells him, pulling him closer to her, and he can't resist her; he can't resist what she wants.

Sam knows that he'll always give Amelie whatever she wants, whenever she wants; this is just another reminder of this fact.

_~x~_

She wraps herself in as close as she can to his body as the clock chimes eleven thirty at night, their bodies swathed in the blankets Sam brought through last night, their backs lying on the floor.

Besides for the constant knocking on the door for an hour from Sam's mother, informing them they _had_ to come out, she wanted to speak to Sam and they had a visitor called Mr Bishop—Mrs Glass knew that Amelie was in there, of course, but doing what she could only presume—they've been alone, free to their own devices, and it's been the most perfect time that Amelie thinks she's ever had.

"I love you," she whispers to Sam for the fifteen hundredth time, it seems, but for one of the first times in English. Her French side comes out again with Sam, something that amuses them both since he has no idea what she's saying, and his only comment is that 'she sounds pretty'.

"I love you, too," he tells her, his hand running through her locks gently, removing one of the knots that's been created since their time began. "But let me take you to a bed now, so that you don't hurt your back. I don't want you to be hurt, Amelie, never."

She agrees, albeit needing persuasion to do so, and so they hastily dress, for fear that his mother may be outside waiting for them, before Sam unlocks the door—

—and they're faced with Mr Bishop.

"F…father," Amelie stutters, Sam's arm automatically wrapping around her protectively. Out of the window, her eye notices a white piece of ice, an iceberg, but she doesn't think it's an issue; they've seen dozens of them over the course of the past twenty four hours. "Why…what…wh…"

"I'm here to take you back to France—or at least whenever we arrive in New York," he tells her harshly, a sneer in his expression as he looks at her with Sam. "I won't get half as much as I would have done for you before, though,_ ma fille_, given that you've lost the only thing that's pure about you," he continues, and Amelie feels the embarrassment sliding onto her face; he knows.

He knows what she's been doing, and that's possibly the most humiliating thing about this—besides for maybe the fact that he's only interested in her to sell onto a family to further his own interests.

Sam, however, surprises her—though if she'd been paying attention, perhaps she wouldn't have been so shocked. "You should get out of my suite, now," he snaps at her father, ignoring the laughter from the older man. "She's with me, and she doesn't want your family connection. We're together. Get. Out."

Before anyone can say anything, or even move, there's a crash…and Amelie knows it's bad. There's a shuddering throughout the entire boat, sending items crashing to the floor, and before it stops, her father has moved.

He grabs Sam from her and throws him to the floor in such a way that Sam doesn't move; he's unconscious, and Amelie finds herself screaming louder than she's ever screamed before.

(He could have killed her future husband. She had no plans to go with him, but she has to stay further away from him now than ever before.)

"Get away from me," she hisses, reaching back for a candlestick as a weapon; it's heavy brass, but it scares Bishop enough to cause him to take a step back. "I want you out of here—now!"

Her father merely laughs, but inclines his head, looking as though he's going to give her the request she's made. "Very well, Amelie, but I expect I shall see you shortly, on the lifeboats," he tells her, and she's momentarily confused. "Oh, you are stupid, are you not? That iceberg hit us; we're going to go down, I am certain." He flashes her a smile, one tainted with the sadistic glee only her father could get from the situation. "And you had better get to the boats quickly, or you'll be trapped on this boat to die."

And with that, her father leaves the suite.

Her heart beating faster than ever before, Amelie checks the clock: eleven forty four pm. She doesn't believe her father that the boat will go down—it's unsinkable, after all—so she sets her focus on awakening the man she loves. As she does, her face manages to move into a smile of sorts; her father left her alone! He did what she wanted…

…Amelie just can't accept that it may be because he's right…and that the RMS Titanic may be no more by morning dawn.

* * *

I'd appreciate it if you didn't favourite or alert without reviewing.

I'll be writing the next section to this soon.


	2. The End

Ok, so this has taken me an embarrassingly long time to write up, because a) I kept forgetting and b) I had writer's block and continually said that half of this is absolute rubbish. Which I think it is, so.

I hope you enjoy it, and don't hate me too much for the way things pan out.

And it's dedicated to **Flying Penguinz** and **downstage** because it _was_ meant to be written for their birthdays but, of course, I failed.

* * *

She's scared.

It's not an emotion that Amelie particularly enjoys feeling—then again, she thinks, fear is something most people don't relish—but she can't help it; she's trapped with an unconscious Sam, and if her father's words are true, they're trapped on a sinking ship.

It seems ridiculous to Amelie; they were told that the Titanic is unsinkable, yet it's apparently…sinking.

"Sam!" she says, urgency in her tone as she shakes his shoulders. The smile fades from her face when he doesn't wake up at her touch. "_Sam! _You have to wake up!" she cries, muttering in French about how she needs him, because without him, she won't get off the ship…or maybe she just doesn't want to.

She needs him. And that's all she can think about as she tries to revive him, to bring him back to consciousness, because there's absolutely no way that she can drag him along to get him off the boat—no chance at all. Amelie doubts that anyone would help her, either, because she's seen it before; in times of crisis, it's every man or woman for themselves, and even if the man requiring help is probably the wealthiest man on the boat, they don't care.

Finally, Sam wakes up, his eyes meeting Amelie's as his hand moves to take hers. "What…where is he?" he asks, struggling to an upright position with Amelie's help. "Did he hurt you, Amelie?" he sounds so concerned for her, Amelie can't help but smile ever so slightly, tracing the outline of his face with her other hand.

"No," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "He didn't hurt me—he just told me that the ship…when it hit the iceberg…he said that we are going to sink, and that he will see us—me—in the lifeboats."

Sam shakes his head, displaying the same disbelief she feels—or, at least felt; they're on the _Titanic_! "That's impossible. He's lying to you, trying to trick you into going with him." He shakes his head again, rapidly, as though he's trying to get non-existent water out of his ear, and somehow staggers to his feet.

"We need to move, Sam," Amelie says, because whilst she _wants_ to believe him, she knows that her father's right: the Titanic, the boat of dreams, will be at the bottom of the ocean within the next few hours, and if they're not careful, they'll be trapped aboard. "I know you're injured, but…but if we don't, and it _is_ true, then we won't be able to leave. I want to spend the rest of my life with you—I just don't want it that our lives end tonight."

Their eyes meet again, and Amelie sees just _how_ much Sam doesn't want to believe that this is real, that Bishop could be right, and she knows that he must see how scared she is, because the next moment, he's nodding his head. "We go to the concierge and find out what's happening—and if nothing is, we come back here, barricade ourselves in and make sure that your father can't get in. Is that a deal?"

Amelie nods, because she knows that Sam doesn't _really_ believe that the ship's going to sink; the only reason he's agreed to leave the cabin is because she's scared that it will, and because he loves her, he doesn't want her to be fearful.

If this isn't love, she doesn't know what is.

_~x~_

Sam's head aches as they walk out of the cabin and head down one of the carpeted corridors, and it feels like the boat's moving at one hundred miles an hour, but when he asks Amelie, she tells him that it's still, unmoving in the icy waters of the ocean. That's what makes him begin to believe what she said—the engines aren't meant to stop, the ship's captain said, and if they've stopped after hitting the iceberg—but he knows that he won't wholly consider Mr Bishop's words to be the truth until he's heard it from someone in charge.

He takes Amelie's hand in his as they make their way down the third identical corridor, whispering between maidservants stopping as they pass close to them, and this is his second clue: there's no looks of shock from the servants at seeing him and Amelie walking past, with such dishevelled appearances, at such late an hour, as there would be if something more urgent didn't exist.

Somehow, Sam begins to move faster, pulling Amelie along with him, until they're almost running; it makes him dizzier than before, and more than once he wants to stop, but he presses on. With every second that passes, he's more and more convinced that Amelie—and, by association, her father—was right, and that they're soon going to be on the bottom of the ocean if they don't escape.

As they move, Sam begins to consider what the next few hours could be like; he would have to find his mother, ensure that she's safe, naturally, but then what? Would they get aboard the too-few lifeboats for the capacity of the ship because of their class, or would it be first come, first served? Would they get on together, or be separated due to Amelie's second-class ticket? Would Bishop manage to find her and take her with him, so that whenever they docked in wherever location, he, Sam, would lose her before he ever really had her? Or will they manage to get off together…and be happy?

"Sam?" Amelie's saying his name, and as he looks at her, he somehow realises that she's been talking to him for a while—he just hasn't responded. "Are you alright?"

He nods slowly, his grip on her hand tightening as they round a corner to leave them merely one hundred metres from the concierge's desk: one hundred metres away from finding the truth. "Yes…I'm sorry. It's just hard to understand that this could be the end," he admits, knowing that he _should_ be strong for her—this is the age of chivalry, after all, of helping those you love—but not managing it.

Amelie nods with his words, and Sam gets the scary feeling that she's almost protecting him, never considering the possibility that, maybe, they need each other to prevent the fear setting in even more than it already has, before she replies. "I know," is all she says, her tone strangely perky for the situation they're in.

Before Sam can say another word, they're walking through the brass-and-mahogany doors to the concierge's desk in the centre of the uppermost deck, and there's the final warning sign for Sam: it's deathly silent. True, it's almost midnight, but according to what he can recall from the entertainment programme for tonight, there's supposed to be music playing until two thirty in the morning.

"Ahh, can I help you, Mr Glass and Miss…?" the white-haired man behind the marble desk questions Sam as soon as the pair approach him, his harrowed expression failing to lose its potency with his fake smile.

"Is it true?" is Sam's instant demand, training his gaze on the concierge—Mr Defries, according to his name badge—and it's not a forgiving glare he's throwing at him. "Is the RMS Titanic _really_ sinking?"

He doesn't need to hear the words of the man; the look in his eyes says it all: the Titanic is sinking, and there's nothing they can do about it. "No, it isn't," the man begins to lie, but Sam's not going to take it. Arguing isn't in his nature, not really, but if it's argue or be lied to, he'd rather get on the offence.

"_No_, it _is_!" Sam snaps, banging his hand on the desk, and in this moment, he can tell he's scared Amelie; she's suddenly tense, her grip on his hand tighter, and one look at her face tells him that he needs to stop this—now. "I'm sorry, Mr Defries, but…but we know that it's sinking. You can't lie to us, try and send us back to our cabin to _die_!" Sam lowers his voice by the end, because he can hear the door opening and closing, and doesn't know if the entering bodies are passengers or crew members in the know.

The suddenly ancient looking concierge takes a deep sigh and lowers his head, looking at the floor for a few moments. "It's true. We're supposed to get the first class passengers to stay in their cabins until we can get the lifeboats prepared; it's going to be a bloodbath, but I didn't say that."

Amelie takes a step forwards, releasing her tight grip on Sam, and says, "there aren't enough lifeboats for everyone." It's a statement, not a question, and the elderly gentleman raises his head to meet Amelie's, and then Sam's eyes. The answer is there, plain and clear, but they both knew this already.

"No," Mr Defries says, his voice hollow and distant. "There isn't space for everyone—the women and children will go first, along with _some_ gentlemen from first class, which will include you, Mr Glass—and so…so many people are going to die tonight."

His tone is matter of fact almost, as though he's resigned to the fact that most of the poorer passengers aren't going to escape the ship, but Sam doesn't have the strength to comment on this; he's been knocked for six for it to be confirmed that the RMS Titanic will soon be on the seabed, and the shock's rendered him almost unable to speak.

"One last thing," he whispers, a thought suddenly coming to him. "I…my mother, she went to dinner and the entertainment earlier, but she hadn't returned to the cabin. I was wondering if you knew where she was…?"

The man shakes his head, and Sam instantly feels one hundred times more petrified than before. "I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't see her pass with the other guests earlier; perhaps she went with a friend in the opposite direction? I'm sure that you can understand, we don't exactly have the ability to launch a search for her, as we normally would."

Sam nods slowly, not sure _what_ to say; part of him wants to shout about how they've lost one of the most valuable women on board, when the ship's sinking, and how they ought to be ashamed…and yet the rest of him doesn't know what to think, say or do. More people will die tonight than will survive, he's certain, and the fact that he has a golden ticket off because of his name…it almost sickens him.

(Then he remembers that if he doesn't accept it, he'll be trapped here to die, and he won't get to live out the rest of his days with Amelie.)

"I…thank you," he says, his voice a monotone as he takes Amelie's hand and pulls her away from the desk, heading towards the restaurant without a word.

He _will_ find his mother. He will find her, save her from wherever she is—as he didn't have the heart to tell the concierge that his mother's friends would never take her back to their suite, not in one million years— and then he'll get the three of them to the decks before the lifeboats are boarded.

He hopes, at least.

_~x~_

As soon as they're out of the foyer, they break into a run, and Amelie's barely able to keep up with the pace that Sam's setting; she knows how much they have to achieve in such an improbably short space of time, and it scares her, because their lives depend on the location of Sam's mother.

"Where do you think she may be?" Amelie asks, breathless as they round another corner on the way to the main dining room for the first class residents; that's where Mrs Glass arranged to always go, Sam thinks, so it's the best place for them to begin their search.

"I don't _know_!" Sam snaps, and like earlier, Amelie's slightly scared of him. In these brief flashes of anger, of the loss of control, he reminds her of her father, the one whose bouts of anger lasted weeks, and were never, ever beneficial to Amelie. All they did was make her scared of him, until finally, the fear solidified into anger, which ultimately deepened to the hatred she now feels.

"Don't talk to me like that," she says quietly, knowing she's being slightly irrational—his mother's missing, of _course_ he's going to be slightly harassed—but not caring. "Where do you think she could be, Sam? Just _think_." She manages to refrain from muttering in French as she waits for his response.

"I…I'm really not sure, Amelie," he replies, his voice calmer than before, but a lot more breathless due to their increased pace. "I think we should look around the room, perhaps check the toilets and other areas, and then head back to the cabin—she _may_ have gone with Colonel Gustan, but I sincerely doubt it—before we admit that there's no chance that we can find her."

Amelie pulls him to a stop, fighting against Sam's superior weight and strength by surprising him enough to pull him to a standstill. It's dangerous, she knows, to waste time with emotions and feelings and comforting, but he needs it; he's discovered the Titanic's sinking _and_ his mother is missing, all within the space of a few moments, as well as suffering from the effects of her father's attack. He needs comforting, no matter what he says.

And so as her hand runs along his cheekbone, she whispers, "we'll find her, Sam. I promise we will; tu sais que c'est la vérité, mon amour."

He doesn't know what the last sentence means, that much Amelie knows, but she hopes that he understands the sentiment—and as their eyes meet, she realises that he does. He may not be able to translate it, but he knows what she means; the language barrier is not an issue in this situation, it seems.

"I know," Sam replies, his own voice barely audible as his hands take both of hers, moving the one from his face with a gentleness she's only ever experienced with him. "You're right, Amelie…but we need to move. We need to find her to get back to the deck so that we can get off this boat and get to New York where I can marry you, and ensure that we're together for the rest of our lives."

Before Amelie has a chance to respond to his words—even to say that she accepts his unasked proposal, or that she's been dreaming of the same thing, too—they're off again, the stop for breathing meaning that they can put their absolute all into making their way to their intended location that much quicker.

**.**

When they arrive, it's nothing like Amelie recalls it from that first night.

The room has none of its elegance without the reams of people in fine, exquisite dress, without the warmth of a fire within the elaborate fireplace, and the lack of lighting. It just seems…dull, dreary almost, a ghost's place to play with those who dare enter its gloomy lair, and even with the still-lit candles in their hand, it seems a place too dreary and foreboding to be their first real conversation's location.

"Mother?" Sam calls out, and Amelie realises suddenly: she doesn't know his mother's name. All the woman is to Amelie is 'Mrs Glass' and Amelie finds herself wanting to know the name of her future mother-in-law—just incase. It's a scenario she's trying not to think of, because she's trying to be positive, but if she doesn't make it off the boat…she wants to know her name. "Mother, are you here?" Sam's voice's volume increases as they stride further into the room, an almost echo coming with his words in the wooden-walled room.

As they walk through the room, Sam sporadically calls out for his mother, Amelie silent because she doesn't know what to call her; does she call for Mrs Glass, or does she ask Sam for his mother's name, so she can be socially incorrect and address her by her first name?

"She's called Charlotte," Sam tells Amelie before she even has to ask, and she turns to face him to see that he's stopped on the other side of the room, his gaze directed through one of the near opaque windows; it's almost a mirror, the darkness outside is so absolute. "Just incase you wanted to try and find her and identify her, if you find any persons loitering around," he adds as she opens her mouth to ask just _how_ he knew to tell her that.

Something tells her that it's best not to ask, because to inquire into the reasons behind such a bond could cause it to be severed—forever.

**.**

It takes them almost forty minutes to find Charlotte Glass, and when they do, it's Amelie who spots her first; she's lying on the floor in the furthermost closet, the moans of agony issuing from her mouth audible from almost ten metres away.

"Sam!" Amelie calls, and she knows that he can tell from her tone that she's found his mother. He's pushing past her into the room almost immediately, bending down to help his mother.

"What happened, Mother?" he asks her, his tone not giving away that there's a major need to get to the deck _now_ so that they can secure a lifeboat for the three of them. "Why are you injured? Why were you abandoned?"

She's crying, Amelie can hear now, and slowly, she moves forwards and drops to her knees to take the older woman's other hand. "I…it was _him_!" she cries, her voice breaking. "_Him_! Her father!" she continues, inclining her head in Amelie's direction. "His gangster helper boy—I never saw him before at dinner these previous evenings, and he could only speak French—he attacked me, making sure I couldn't get up…and he made sure that there was no need for anyone to come down here!"

She begins to whisper frantically in Sam's ear, doing her best to stay as far away from Amelie as possible, it seems to Amelie, yet Amelie can understand; it was her blood who caused this to happen to her—she doesn't know what she'd do if she was in this situation.

"Mother, Amelie's here to help," Sam says firmly, looking from his mother to Amelie for just one second—a second that may as well last a lifetime—before returning his intense gaze to the woman who brought him into the world. "She's _nothing_ like her father, nothing at all, and if you want her to leave whilst I help you, we're both going to die." He says it matter-of-factly, as though it's a fact that's well known to the three of them, and Amelie thinks it's perhaps this that stops his mother's reaction being greater than a large gasp in horror.

"I…very well," she sniffs, looking at Amelie for one second before she shifts back towards looking at her son. "She can hold the doors open, I _suppose_," Charlotte Glass continues, though as she begins to move to her feet, Amelie finds her (hopefully) future mother-in-law leaning more on herself than Sam.

And so they move.

Amelie can only hope that they'll be able to move fast enough to ensure that they can be amongst the first ones onto the boats, meaning that they need not be on the same boat as her father. Something tells her that not one of the three of them wants to be anywhere near him.

_~x~_

Sam doesn't know if they'll make it.

That's his honest opinion, something he can't help but consider, because it takes them almost forty minutes to make it across from one side of the dining room to the other, because his mother's back means she can't be lifted. That's too long. It must be nearing one thirty in the morning now, he thinks, and if the ship's sinking, it won't be a slow loss. He can't be certain because he's never been aboard a sinking passenger liner before, but Sam's almost certain that there'll be less than an hour to get off the boat safely—before it sinks. His mother still doesn't believe him as he tries to explain the way that the ship's lurching _isn't_ because of extreme waves—it's because the ship is _sinking_, and they're going to go down with it, and that's something Sam can't let happen—but yet she still doesn't believe him. Even as the power in the hallway they're headed for flickers on and off, she doesn't believe him, Amelie's attempts fall on deaf ears and Sam's so completely left without hope that they'll get off when they reach the doors that he considers just stopping in the dining room. It would be a nice place to die, pleasant almost, somewhere with elegance and a setting familiar to the three of them.

He pushes the thought out of his mind almost immediately, though. Death isn't on the cards for _any_ of them; he's determined to get the three of them to the deck and for the three of them to safely embark on a lifeboat—and if not him, his mother and Amelie. Something tells him that the men will be forced to the side whilst the women and children disembark the Titanic for the safety of the lifeboats—and if he doesn't get there quickly, he'll be one of those men.

"Mother," he says as patiently as he can manage, "we have to _hurry up_! We aren't going to get to the deck in time if we don't, and if that doesn't happen, then we'll be trapped."

His mother turns to look at him, her feet becoming stationary as she does so, and Sam regrets speaking if it means that they'll be slowed down even _more_ than they already have. Amelie's already ten metres ahead of them, ready to hold the next set of doors open to help Sam and his mother pass through, and something about her expression makes Sam certain that they're _definitely_ moving too slowly.

"What's going to happen?" his mother asks him, and Sam feels himself almost losing his temper. "Samuel! There is _nothing_ that is gong to happen to us! Nothing! The ship is not sinking; everyone has merely gone to bed because it is the early hours of the morning—and I think that I should like to go to my bed, also." She's being stubborn, refusing to move even as Sam tries to pull her along towards Amelie.

"Mother, you don't understand, do you?" Sam snaps, running his hand through his hair as he turns towards Amelie, motioning for her to come back. "There will be no bed for you—at least not above water—within the next hour. Now, unless you want for the three of us to die, you will hurry up, or I will…I will knock you unconscious and then carry you, bad back or not. Is this clear?"

He feels almost scared of himself, and he's certain that he's never, ever spoken to anyone like this before, least of all his mother, and guilt wracks his body for a moment or two. Then, however, the guilt dissapitates; his mother _finally_ understands that there's something very, very wrong with the RMS Titanic, and she's putting all her effort into moving towards their end goal faster. Maybe they've got a chance of making it there in time—maybe they'll survive.

Maybe.

It's a word that, no matter how much he tries to expel it from his mind, continues to linger there: _maybe_ they'll make it to the lifeboats, _maybe_ they won't be forced to get on the same boat as Bishop, _maybe_ they will make it to New York and he can marry Amelie. Everything's maybe; nothing's concrete on this supposed 'boat of dreams', not the good and not even the bad, because Sam doesn't know if he's going to survive or not. Everything is possible, nothing is certain.

And then the power cuts out.

They're plunged into darkness and almost immediately, Amelie screams; it takes all Sam has not to run to her side, to recall that his mother cannot move any faster and that they'll reach Amelie soon enough—he doesn't need to rush to her

That doesn't stop him panicking.

"Amelie!" he calls, straining his eyes against the impenetrable obscurity to try and see even a flicker of movement: there's nothing. "Are you alright?"

She begins to cry out in French, a flurry of rapid words in quick succession that do nothing to calm Sam's nerves other than to confirm that she's alive—something he knew, really, though it's comforting to know that she hasn't been killed by something ahead of his position.

"Oui!" she calls back, and finally Sam understands a word—other than _je t'aime_, he knows one word: yes. "I…there is…it's…oh, Sam! We need to hurry; l'eau—the water, it's…it's _here_!" she replies, her voice getting closer and closer to Sam until he feels his body bump into something warm and slightly sweaty: Amelie.

The carpet is damp beneath his feet, causing them to squelch as he moves them, and Sam understands that this water is the cause of the power failure; it's affecting the circuit boards on the levels below them—this level, three or four from the top, is the next one to be flooded.

"It's almost here," he mutters, and he feels the movement of Amelie's hair against his chest as they move forwards, the three of them together, a unit within the darkness that seems claustrophobic now, as well as scary. Sam's scared now, because if there's water here, it means that they're on the brink of disaster, mere minutes away from death by drowning if they don't get up, up, UP!

Sam feels his way along the wall, desperate to find a staircase to take them up to the main deck, the one where the lifeboats are—they've got to be amongst the last of first class on board, he thinks, and given the extremely small quantity of lifeboats…they've _got_ to get there—and finally, he finds it. There's a little light almost out of eyeshot, just a pinprick, but that's enough for Sam to know that that's where they need to go—it's their best bet, at least.

"You go first," he tells Amelie, not waiting for an answer as he pushes her in the direction of the metal stairs. There's a handrail on the side, so that they don't slip, but the case is narrow and shaky, almost as though it was built as a last resort to move between the levels, so it'll be hard enough for him with his mother, let alone with Amelie merely a step or so in front of them.

He counts to ten out loud as he waits for Amelie to have enough of a lead so that they don't collide on the way up, and as he does, he feels the water rising rapidly; it's midway between his ankles and his knees now, and almost at his mother's knees, and it's absolutely freezing. If they get trapped in this…Sam knows it's over.

"We're coming now, Amelie!" he shouts, trying to keep the edge of panic out of his voice as he helps his mother onto the first of the many dozens of steps. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" she replies, her voice more distant than perhaps Sam had originally wanted—whilst he wants her to get to safety, part of him wishes that she would disregard his wishes just to be closer to him…and then he realises that he's being selfish. "There's some sort of gated door, it seems almost solid, and if you get here, we can lock it and hopefully get some time before the water reaches this level."

Encouraged by this news, Sam puts every single ounce of effort into getting himself and his mother up the stairs as quickly as possible, but it's an agonisingly long process. Each step takes almost thirty seconds, and even though he can't see it, the ominous sound of the water beneath him makes him certain that it's gaining on him—it's advancing towards his feet faster than he can help his mother move.

"Leave me," she whispers, quietly, so that her voice doesn't travel to Amelie, and Sam finds himself gripping her tighter, pushing her faster. "You know I'm the weakest of the three of us, Sam; I'm the one who means that you and Amelie are at risk—"

"No," he says firmly, as thought that's the end of the discussion, but she continues.

"I've had my life," she says urgently, though she continues to move up the steps with him—an indication, Sam thinks, that she doesn't _really_ want to die; she's just doing what a mother thinks they need to, and that's putting their children before themselves. "You and Amelie, you deserve to _live_! You're going to go to New York and get married—I was wrong before. She's right for you, I'm certain of it. I barely know her but I know that you and Amelie…you two are—"

"_NO!"_ he yells, yanking his mother's arm so that she stumbles but somehow manages to make it up the next two steps at a pace almost quadruple the pace before: they've reached the door. This is the point which guarantees their safety.

Or it should.

As he's about to walk through the door, Sam turns around to look at the water—and he sees that it's at his feet. The water's moved with them, submerged an entire floor and beyond in the time it's taken them to get here, and there's no way that they can make it to the top deck with it moving at this rate. The door needs to be locked, but that will take time—too much time for them to afford.

There's only one thing for it.

"Amelie," Sam says urgently, his hand reaching out to find her in the darkness. It's almost possible to see her now, with the light from a floor or two above, and he savours these final moments; the feeling of her skin against his hand, her breath on his face, they're the things he wants to remember in his final moments, if this is how it has to end—here, now, forever. "I need you to take my mother up the stairs to the lifeboats and to get on them. I'm going to lock this door—I'll need to figure out how to lock it and then ensure that it happens before the water pressure is too high for it to simply burst, ok? You'll be strong enough to take her, I promise."

"No, you can't sacrifice yourself!" Amelie cries, and Sam can hear the tears in her voice, feel the trembling of her body as he reaches to take her hand and place it on his mother. "You're…you're too good for that, Sam, too…you're not _allowed_, I can't let you do that for me," she continues, and Sam realises that this isn't just goodbye for him: it's goodbye for her, too.

"You have to do this," he says softly, well aware that they're wasting the time they so desperately cannot afford, but he won't leave her without the closure she needs. "If you don't, they we all die, and there's no need for that, is there? I can do this, and I promise I'll try and get to the deck as fast as possible—I'll try."

He doesn't think that he will, given that the water's almost above this step now, but he won't make let that final glimmer of hope leave her. "Mother, I love you. Go with Amelie and don't make a fuss; fight for me." He's brief with his mother, pressing a kiss against her cheek before a lighter-than-air kiss on Amelie's lips, and then he's pushing them away. Just before Amelie's skin is gone from his, a cross necklace is being pushed into his hand—the one she's been wearing around her neck since she met him—and he hears her say, "for you. I'll always be with you," before they're ripped apart, Amelie moving towards the next flight of stairs.

Sam can hear the movement of Charlotte Glass and Amelie rather than see it; he's turned around to face the door with its complex locking system—something that's not particularly helpful in the dark—and he immediately tries to feel his way around it, the attempts to merely slam it shut stopped by some security feature.

This is one of the moments that he really hates the Titanic's priding itself on being safety conscious.

(As it hasn't succeeded with the evacuation, has it?)

**.**

The water's rising.

It's above his waist now, and the current's getting stronger, and the door _won't_ close, it just won't! There's no longer any sounds indicating his mother and Amelie are moving, so maybe it's time to just admit defeat and accept that the door won't close and that he needs to get up the stairs—now.

He gives it a push, but then a wave of water comes rushing down from one of the corridors—left or right, it doesn't really matter—and washes over him, pushing him down underneath the current, sending him in all directions.

He's not strong enough.

He doesn't come up.

_~x~_

It's heartbreaking to leave him behind, but somehow, Amelie does it. She fights on with Charlotte Glass, helping her up the stairs, a newfound determination in them both to reach their goal now that someone's given their life for them to be saved.

_He'll make it, I know he will_, she repeats to herself over and over again in her mind, but the odd looks Charlotte throws at her every now and then makes Amelie realise that she's probably saying it out loud—and in French. It's not as though it particularly bothers her to show such faith in Sam, but when the stairs become narrower and steeper and their final destination becomes that much closer, Amelie stops thinking about anything other than getting to the deck before the last lifeboat is lowered into the ocean so that they can climb aboard it.

The silence is deafening. In here, on this staircase, they're almost apart from the melee of the rest of the boat, and even though they _should_ be able to hear the rest of the boat's two thousand passengers, they can't. Even the water beneath them, where Sam is, isn't audible to the two women as they make their way hastily up to the deck.

"You're not the type I thought my son would fall for," Charlotte says between gasps for breaths—they're moving so quickly that conversation isn't really possible, but she's trying to converse with Amelie now. "But…I can see that you're really something. You're…"

"We don't have time for this," Amelie replies fiercely, fighting back the tears as they begin to make their way up the final fifteen stairs. They're almost there, though it's a bittersweet feeling because somewhere below, Sam's trapped. He would be here by now if he was going to make it, she thinks. She can't talk to Charlotte about how she and Sam are _soul mates_ because he's died for her. It hurts so much already and she's still in shock, not having had time to process it; when she does, it'll be more painful than anything she's ever experienced.

So even as Charlotte tries to discuss _Amelie and Sam_ a little more, Amelie ignores her, because otherwise she'll sink down onto the stairs and refuse to move; she'll go down with the ship, with Sam, and let her life end…and she pretty much promised that she'd live for Sam.

**.**

They reach the deck and it's a flurry of motion; everyone's being flung lifejackets—it turns out they have enough of _them_, just not places on the lifeboats for the entire population onboard—and Amelie helps Charlotte with hers, securing the ties around the waist. The older lady looks spent, leaning against one of the windows, and so Amelie gives her a few moments to regain as much energy as possible before they make their way to a boat to sail to be saved.

(Well, for Charlotte to; Amelie'll be on one of the last boats because there's a _chance_ that Sam has survived, and not unless she sees his dead body will she believe it. If he's not here by the final boat, then he's gone…but there's a chance.

There's always a chance.)

"The boat over there is just loading," Amelie says, her tone matter-of-fact as she points in the direction she means. Charlotte turns and follows Amelie's gaze, and before she can even say a word, Amelie's already moving over there, Charlotte's hand in hers. They skirt around the crying groups saying goodbye to their menfolk—the men from the lower classes are _definitely_ not going to get off this boat, it seems, and only the very best from first are guaranteed a place—and reach the steward helping the women and children onto this lifeboat. It's the fourteenth one along, and with the empty berths along the deck, Amelie guesses there can't be that many more boats to go after this one.

"Goodbye, Charlotte," Amelie says as the red-haired woman who looks so like her son is handed into the boat. "I can't come with you. I need to…I need to see if he'll be saved."

Amelie ducks out from the steward's attempts to help her into the boat, lifting her skirts as she does so, and runs full pelt for the middle of the boat, the viewing point there the best place for her to see if the familiar crop of red hair appears at any point. It's also the best place to see which the best lifeboat to board is—and whether her father is still aboard the boat.

Her heart sinks.

_There_, on the far side of the ship's deck, is her father and his crony, the one who was with him when she encountered him two hours ago—though it seems far, far longer than that since he knocked her Sam unconscious and issued her an ultimatum—and he looks relatively calm. There's a lifeboat waiting for him—Amelie can tell that it is, because there are three places saved and nobody's being allowed onto the boat to claim them—and she knows immediately what he's waiting for.

Her.

She tries to duck from her position, given that it's so open (one drawback to it helping her: she's visible to everyone else just as clearly) but she _knows_ he's seen her, she just knows it. As she looks back across, his eyes are focused on where she's standing: there's no point hiding any longer.

Her eyes meet his and his wave towards her is almost cheerful, a glint in his eyes that suggests to Amelie that he's known all along how this will end; she'll be forced to get on the same boat as him if she waits for the last one, to wait for Sam, because he's saved her a place—and then she'll be his once again. She won't be able to escape.

Death will be her only option.

Risking the fall, Amelie jumps from her position, wincing as her ankle twists slightly on her landing, but she's immediately heading for one of the lifeboats on the far side of the ship, the opposite to her father who is much too close to her at the present minute; if she doesn't see Sam now, she won't see him, that's pretty much guaranteed and—

"AMELIE!"

It's Sam! The feeling she gets when she hears his voice is indescribable; it's as though every good event that could ever happen has occurred at once, a maddeningly brilliant thing that causes her heart to leap out of her chest, a grin to cover her lips and an urge to rejoice by singing.

She turns towards the voice of her lover, forgetting about the fact that she needs to find a lifeboat and get on it before the only one left is her father's. They're dropping into the water faster than she had anticipated, and something about the creaking of the boat gives her the impression that it's almost ready to sink.

But Sam is _alive_!

Straining her eyes, she can just about see him, his figure sopping wet, his face drained…but alive. He's not dead, he didn't perish to save her in the end.

"You're alive!" she calls back, trying to make her way over to him—he's where she wants to be, with the still-empty lifeboats—but the crowd's too dense for her to get there. It's scaring her now, even more than before, because she doesn't think that she'll be able to fight through this many people to reach Sam; it's a miracle that she can even see him. "I…how?"

"I swam around the floor and found another exit and made my way up, and then…then someone showed me how to get here!" he yells back. "Can you get through?"

"No," Amelie replies, panicking slightly. "I can't…and I can't get on the same boat as him, Sam, I just _can't_!"

Before she knows it, Sam's fighting through the crowds between them to reach her, pulling her into his arms to hug her for one brief, yet eternal moment before their attention is back on the hunt for a lifeboat.

"I'll look on this side; you move over there and see if the one _next_ to his boat is free," Sam directs, his fingers interlocked with Amelie's as they march forwards on the deck. "I've got your necklace. Do you want it back?" he says, motioning to the lump in the pocket of his shirt.

Amelie shakes her head. "I wanted you to have it, to think of me forever incase something happens. Keep it. Please."

"In that case…" Sam says, trailing off, and he releases her hand. Amelie feels the sudden coolness of the biting wind on her skin and realises that the water from Sam's sodden clothes has drenched her, also—but she doesn't mind. Elation continues to fill her as a ring is being pressed into her hand. "This is mine. I want you to look after it for me, please, and then we'll trade jewellery later, ok?"

Amelie nods, slipping the ring onto her thumb, because it's too big for any of her other fingers, and watches as Sam disappears across the deck before she recalls that she, too, has a mission to complete.

The lifeboat Sam motioned to is full, and so is the next one along; they're both being lowered into the ocean before she can plead for access, and a frantic look across at Sam gives her the impression that he's facing the same predicament—or not.

"Amelie!" he cries, and Amelie turns to see he's being pushed onto the boat, someone she vaguely recognises from the one night in the dining room grabbing his clothes to pull him aboard. There's sadness and fear in his eyes, something she can see even from this distance, and all she can do is watch as his boat is lowered into the water.

She's stranded—alone.

Before she can even think about what to do, how to survive, someone's grabbing her from behind, picking her up and running with her towards her father's lifeboat; it'll be his crony, she's certain of it, _Mordred_, Bishop's most useful manservant.

"Oh good, you found her," is all her father says as Mordred throws her into the boat alongside him, though Amelie's certain he would have said something more derogatory had they not been with others.

Now that the three of them are in the lifeboat—Amelie desperately trying to move away from her father and release herself from Mordred's vice-like grip on her—the attendant sets it on its path into the water, the journey relatively short given the Titanic's position in the water.

"You didn't _really _think even your little red haired prince could save you from me, did you, Amelie?" Bishop sneers into her ear, and a fresh wave of defiance overcomes her. "You may be saved and he may be saved, but you're not going to be with him. We're going to get on a boat in New York and return to France and he's going to find a deserving wife, not someone like _you_, you filthy little brat. Savour your memories of him, Amelie, for you are never going to see him again."

And Amelie knows he's telling the truth.

She has two decisions: risk staying and being able to break away from her father before they berth in New York, or to take matters into her own hands, though have more chance of death than survival.

Something tells her that death would be preferable to being with her father for the rest of her life.

Pretending to faint, she falls forwards against Mordred's exposed arm and bites, hard. It causes her captor to yelp in surprise and jump up, releasing Amelie…and she immediately makes the most of this release.

"Au revoir, mon _père_," she says to her father as she slips onto the side of the lifeboat, the wood creaking with her weight. Already, her legs dangle over the side, and it's a good thing she isn't scared of heights because the water below looks unforgiving.

She can hear the lifeboat's 'captain' screaming, yelling for someone to pull her back into the boat—he's missed the exchange between herself, her father and Mordred, and thinks she's slipped—but before grabbing hands can capture her, she falls.

It's exhilarating, falling, even though it's far too short a time for her to really enjoy the feeling of the wind in her hair, the freedom of having broken away from her father for the last time. It's too short a fall for her to get nervous about the decision she's made, or for her to think about how hard she's going to have to swim to get away from the Titanic _and_ to find Sam's lifeboat, and whether or not she'll make it in the water that's surely below freezing.

All she thinks about is Sam's face and how she imagines it'll look when she sees him again.

(If she sees him again.)

**.**

The water's cold. It's freezing.

It's killing her.

By the time the lifeboat she was aboard touches down in the water, Amelie's managed to use the reserves of her energy to swim away from this side of the ship and is in open water, headed for where she presumes Sam's lifeboat has gone to; there seems to be lights in that direction, so it fits.

Just…the water…

She can barely lift one arm now, the cold having sapped her strength, and the feeble attempts of her feet moving can hardly be considered kicks. It seems like forever that she's been in the water when really, it's only been minutes—five most likely, ten at an absolute maximum. The only thing keeping Amelie fighting is Sam, the ring around her thumb a reminder who she's trying to survive for.

So, as her skirts try to drag her down into the murky depths of the ocean, the lifejacket having already lost its buoyancy, their weight equal to almost two of her, she struggles onwards, her breathing getting more and more shallow, her heartbeat feeling as though it's doubled—no, tripled—in speed.

"SAM!" she screams, screaming for him to come and help her, for him to save her from this death, because that's what it is. She knows now that she's dying; the noise of everything around her is fading, and when her head goes underwater, sometimes it feels as though it isn't going to break through the surface again. "Help me! Sam…I..je t'aime," she calls, her voice weaker now because the strength has gone.

Amelie has faded.

The next time her head goes under water, she doesn't resurface.

However, she reflects, as the waves begin to crash over her head, the splash the only indication that she was ever above water, maybe this is good. She can see Sam's face before her, even though she can't touch it, and as her eyes begin to close in the frigid setting she's in, she imagines that he's taking her into his arms.

The water's still now, filling her mouth and lungs when she tries to breathe, but it doesn't make her panic; even with her eyes half closed, the loss of feeling spreading through her body, she can see Sam's red hair before her, feel his hands tracing her face, and she feels content. His ring continues to be attached to her thumb, frozen into position by the icy waters, and she wonders idly if that's the reason why she can see him—but, really, she doesn't care why she can see him. She just can.

Her arms spread out of their own accord and Amelie realises this is it, this is the end.

And she isn't scared.

_~x~_

Sam's screaming in his head, screaming because she's on the lifeboat with her father, she's not safe, she's NOT, she's GOING TO DIE, GOING TO LEAVE HIM. His hands are ripping into his hair, tearing out huge chunks, as he peers into the distance to try and spot Amelie's blonde locks—but he's too far away to see anything.

"Sit down, Glass, or you're going to get us all killed!" someone snaps at him, forcing him to sit on the seat he's been allocated, hands restraining him as he fights to stand up.

It doesn't work.

**.**

Fifteen minutes later, the great hulk of the RMS Titanic breaks into two halves before dropping like stones into the ocean, the screams of people desperate for help filling the air…there's room on the boat, but the ship's commander refuses to go back.

Then, there's silence.

Sam doesn't dare think about whether, on another boat like this, Amelie's got the ability to get away from her father.

**.**

"Sam!" his mother calls as they are reunited on the deck of the Carpathia, the ship that came to their rescue when no other did, rushing towards him. "You're alive!"

The tears overcome his mother and he's desperately trying to console her and explain how he survived almost certain death, whilst at the same time looking for Amelie—or her father, or _anyone_ who could know where she is.

Then, he lays eyes on Mr Bishop.

"Mother, I'll be right back," he says distracted, pushing her into the arms of another person—he doesn't care who it is—as he rushes towards the man who should be his future father-in-law.

"Where is she?" he demands to know, standing before the elder man with a defiant stand. "I'll find her, Bishop, you know I will! We're going to get married, you—"

"She died," Bishop sighs, and Sam can tell instantly that this is the truth; he doesn't know how, he just does. "She's lost me a great deal of money, in that pointless quest to swim to find your boat and be with you. I hope you're happy—you killed her."

"No," Sam whispers to himself, somehow finding himself on the deck's surface and not understanding how he got there, "no, she can't be dead. She can't be dead…"

"She is," Bishop replies, his voice suddenly much cooler. "And it is all your fault. Remember _that_ when you recall the pleasure of her company, Mr Glass, and know that her mother was just as flighty—you wouldn't have had her attention for very much longer, I'm sure."

Sam's too shocked to respond to these slurs against Amelie's name—from her _father_, thought that should be expected, for Bishop to insult Amelie—because he doesn't understand how she can be dead. She—they had plans, to marry, to live in a house in the city, to have children—beautiful, bouncing children, ones that looked like Sam from one angle and Amelie from the other (though he wanted them just to take after their mother) and yet here he is, alone.

He's never felt like this before—and he doubts he ever will again, as long as he will live.

**.**

_15th April 1942_

Thirty years has passed, and as he has done every year since the tragedy—it was every day for the first year, he recalls with a sickening clarity—Sam takes the necklace out of its place of honour in his cabinet and cleans it, before turning to look at the painting of Amelie. He can't draw, has never been able to, but as soon as his father's estate was in his hands, he commissioned New York's best artist to create the best likeness he could.

It's not the same—and it's never been enough—but it's more than having nothing, so that's why Sam keeps it.

He never married; he didn't think that he could feel the same way about anyone else without betraying her memory. Bishop's words have haunted him every day since he said that Sam was the reason Amelie died, and that's the other reason why he could never marry, or even date; it wouldn't be fair to lay such baggage, such issues on another woman, someone who never even heard of Amelie.

As he does every year, Sam thinks of everything that Amelie's missed since she died: the first world war and now the second—it's been going for three years for their home countries, and he doubts it will have abated by the next time he has one of these memory sessions—and then advancements in flying, in medicine, in technology—almost everything.

On his desk is the latest letter from the foundation; they're informing him that three hundred and four young girls have been saved from abusive homes in the past three hundred and sixty five days, with the funds donated to the Amelie Glass Foundation, which he set up in Amelie's name, because that was the only thing he could think of doing to honour her.

(Well, besides the bench in Central Park, in a location he's sure she'd love, and a memorial tombstone which has his mother to the left, and his future plot to the right.)

Life has changed irreversibly in the thirty years since her death, and yet it hasn't changed at all simultaneously: he's still the same Sam Glass he was then, not wanting the fame he inherited, yet now he's more reserved, having retired from public life. He's the name above the door at the office, and that's not going to change—The Glass Bank is world renowned, despite its losses in the 1929 Wall Street crash—but he hasn't had any interest in taking the top job.

"Rest in peace, Amelie," he murmurs as always, running a hand through his thinning hair before putting the necklace back in its case. "And remember that I love you…always."

(He half hopes that he'll join her wherever she is before he has to repeat this ceremony again. The other half of him wants never to die, so that she can live through him—and so that her memory will never die.)

* * *

I'd appreciate it if you didn't favourite without reviewing, thank you.


End file.
